


Can I Take Your Order? (Day 20: Coffeeshop)

by AsYouCommand (OminousHummingObelisk), SKINKWORKS



Series: AUgust All Year Long [6]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Alien Biology, Alternate Universe - Coffee Shops & Cafés, Comedy, Disregard for Own Health, M/M, Non-Consensual Kissing, Obscene Graffiti
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-05-28
Packaged: 2021-03-03 05:40:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,622
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24419788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OminousHummingObelisk/pseuds/AsYouCommand, https://archiveofourown.org/users/SKINKWORKS/pseuds/SKINKWORKS
Summary: Welcome to Starbot's! What can I get started for you today?In which Tarn meets what might be the only Cybertronian in the galaxy who doesn't know who he is.
Relationships: Damus|Tarn/OC
Series: AUgust All Year Long [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1763485
Comments: 7
Kudos: 42





	Can I Take Your Order? (Day 20: Coffeeshop)

This particular Starbot's location was on the main entertainment level in the satellite base, a busy strip with cobbled-together but very respectable cafes and bars. The manager was especially patriotic and proudly advertised the fact with the large painting on the inside of the glass plate window that faced the walkway. CAFF FOR THE CAUSE! it proclaimed, topped by a steaming Starbot's mug next to a large Decepticon brand, as if the very concept of Decepticon-hood itself were enjoying a stiff, hot beverage inside the casual cafe interior.

They'd gotten some new toppings and syrups from corporate and had to reorganize parts of the working area again. Ontarget had gladly volunteered to do all the labeling, and their boss was pleased to have him do it. His elegant calligraphic script was admired by everyone who happened to catch sight of their equipment. 

"Okay, mercury comes in a shaker now on top of being in a squeeze pack, so here's the new limited edition flakes." Ontarget nodded and carefully wrote "mercury flakes" on the large white label in his hand. He paused for a moment to look it over before peeling it off and sticking it to the shiny new shaker. "Mercury" he knew from before - it was shaped like a straight line and something like a wire rolled around a shorter wire. "Flakes" was a sort of bundle of straight lines angled up at around two o'clock, but not the same bundle as "bronze" and with fewer lines than "crude roast." He nodded to himself. Not too hard to remember. 

"Here's the limited copper gourd spice syrup. We've got like fifty gallons of it in back, so don't go light on it if somebody orders it." Ugh, "copper gourd spice" was a series of parabolas that looked almost like "half and half," but thankfully the container itself was distinct enough that he shouldn't make a mistake. 

He patiently wielded his marker through the rest of the new arrivals. Afterward, since they were a bit slow after the shift-change rush and Crest was handling the only order well enough by himself, Ontarget stepped back a little and ran his eyes over and over the new arrangement, listing the things off to himself, reminding himself of what each little angle and swoop represented. He had to make sure that he had it all straight before the next rush so he didn't accidentally blend something wrong. The legendary mixup with the dragonchute gold spice spritzer (two pumps of silver, one pump of nickel, a dash of half and half and one shot of extra-dark - what the hell was the commander even thinking when he ordered that anyway??) was still retold among the baristas of Omikron Waystation 3-Delta to this day. 

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw a large tank with some truly impressive arm-mounted cannons stalk by outside and pause suddenly, looking up at the window for several long seconds. Eventually, he stalked inside. Conversation instantly dropped to silence as everyone seemed unable to decide whether they should be staring or averting their eyes. As the tank unhurriedly made his way past the shelves of decorative to-go tumblers and Cronch presses, the people sitting at the tables in his wake got up and made their way to the exit as quickly and quietly as they could, sometimes pushing at and shushing each other in their haste. Weird. 

Ontarget was so consumed with the weirdness - was this some new and especially dreaded internal auditor who was here to take apart the post's functioning? - that he only belatedly noticed that all of his coworkers had similarly disappeared into the back, leaving him essentially alone in the cafe with the tank. He looked up and up (being a two-wheeler was so rough sometimes, even when it came to hitting some of the buttons on the POS machine) and noticed that the tank's face was actually shaped like a Decepticon brand. Wow, he'd never expected to meet a bigger Cause fan than his boss, but this guy certainly took the oilcake. Probably the window painting was what made him come inside. 

"Welcome to Starbot's!" he said with a curved-visor smile. "What can I get started for you, sir?" 

The tank cast a brief, mildly disgusted look at the overhead menu and its weird seasonal drinks, then said in one long rush, "Venti extra dark rustmocha redeye, six shots, no sweetener, no syrup, three hundred degrees extra hot." 

"Wow, brutal," Ontarget said appreciatively, swirling the abbreviated order details down the side of the cup as tradition demanded even though they did him no good personally. He realized that the tank's brand-face was actually a mask, as he saw optic lids narrowing slightly behind the rigid planes of metal. And because it was also tradition, "What's the name, sir?" 

The tank put a hand on the counter. "Excuse me?" he said softly. 

"We usually just get a name for every order, sir. You seem to be the only one here right now, though—" 

"Ultra Magnus," the tank said evenly with a fixed stare. 

"Ultra Magnus," Ontarget repeated. Lots of diagonal lines in that one, in three distinct clumps. Repeating it always helped him remember which names actually went with which orders. "That sounds like the name of a mech who orders drinks like that." Still with that uncomfortable stare, the tank pinged his payment over with a relatively scrawny tip attached. "It'll be just a minute, sir, if you can step down to the pickup counter." The tank stalked away from the register to wait. 

As Ontarget whipped up Ultra Magnus' drink, trying not to melt the paint off his hands with the plus-300 extra hotness and slipping an extra cup around the existing one to slow the melt through the fiberfoam, he racked his brains over whether he should know who this mech was. The name definitely wasn't familiar. He felt like he should remember somebody with a brand mask, since that was pretty distinctive. Then again, hardly anybody talked to him much nowadays, what with his downgrading back then, so maybe this was some new fashion that he hadn't caught up on. Regardless, he did his very best with the drink and delivered it to the other end of the counter, putting a sleeve over the nested cups as another futile gesture against the heat. The tank picked it up, slid a glass straw out of his subspace and into the hole in the hot lid, and took a long sip through his mask. Ontarget's smile nearly slipped as he watched another person voluntarily put liquid that was that hot into his mouth and swallow it. He'd never seen anything quite like it. 

"Fine work," the tank said, and a healthier tip hit the store account. "My compliments to the artist, as well." He gestured toward the front window. 

"Oh, I'll tell our boss. He painted it himself." 

Ultra Magnus took another long pull on his straw. Ontarget was glad that the cups were holding up. This officer had to have no nerve endings in his intake whatsoever. "Is he quite a patriot, your boss?" 

"He says so, sir. He always tells us to do our best because we're fueling the Decepticon war engine with top quality caff. Even baristas need to do their part." 

"Indeed, they do." The tank nodded gravely. "The Cause appreciates his dedication. I think that I will be back." 

"Great to hear that, sir. We look forward to seeing you." 

Ultra Magnus stalked out of the cafe. A moment later, three barista heads peeked worriedly around the doorframe leading to the back storage room. "What the heck, guys?" Ontarget asked. Not cool, leaving him out there all alone. 

His boss crept out first, bravely. He almost slunk up to Ontarget's side, lurking in the shadow of the espresso processor. "Did everything go okay?" he asked anxiously. 

"Why wouldn't it? I made him a drink, he paid, he left." Everybody clustered around him, eyes wide. This was concerning. "Um, is he someone that I should know?" 

Crest opened his mouth, but before he could speak, the boss took hold of Ontarget's arm. "If nothing bad happened, then are you okay with dealing with him again if he comes in?" 

Ontarget shrugged. "Sure?" The officer had seemed satisfied by completely normal customer service. 

* * *

Ultra Magnus was back the next day, this time in the middle of the shift-change rush. They ended up not having much of a rush, as the lined-up customers immediately started slipping away as soon as somebody caught sight of the approaching tank and gasped aloud. The guy at the register had already paid but just murmured, "Forget it," and escaped with all the others. The people at the tables rushed out as quietly and unobtrusively as a crowd of warbuilds could manage to rush. New customers who approached the front door turned around as soon as they got a look inside. 

The tank had a slightly weary air to him as he approached the counter, though he had the same smooth, controlled stride as before. Ontarget had the impression that he was silently marking the faces of everyone who made a run for it even though he made no show of looking around the place. As before, the rest of the staff vanished and left the two-wheeler alone at the front, not like there was a rush for him to manage anymore. "Hi again, sir! What can I get started for you today?" 

Ultra Magnus gave him only the slightest withering glare - or so Ontarget assumed, as the mask made every expression into some kind of glare - before rattling off another order. "Trente chilled mechicano, nine shots extra dark, twelve pumps of mercury, six pumps of cobalt. Do you still have powdered hematite?" 

"Yes, sir." 

"Coat the bottom of the cup with it, if you would." 

"Sure thing." Ultra Magnus' payment hit the account and Ontarget sketched the order down the side of the disturbingly huge glass. Raw stimulant with stimulant flavoring, stimulant garnish, and a little hydrogen dioxide to keep it from congealing into a lump of raw chemical hatred inside the digestion tanks. This guy did not fuck around with his caff. "And I think I remember the name from yesterday. Ultra Magnus?" 

The tank's head actually tilted a little to one side in a way that might nearly be cute if not for the slow, menacing way that he did it. "Prowl," he stated. 

Ontarget paused, having just laid down the first jagged lines of the name. "Ohhhhh, you're one of _those_ ," he said with a grin, wagging his finger at the officer. "Prowl it is today, sir." He scribbled out the old lines and put some new ones down in their place. Thankfully, despite nearly being a controlled substance by the time he was done blending it, Prowl's drink was at least not a danger to Ontarget's physical health today. He got the disturbing pleasure of seeing the tank vacuum a clot of hematite up through his straw, chased by an almost sludgy stream of slightly diluted extra dark. That had to be almost painful to drink, just in a different way than yesterday's concoction. 

Another nice tip appeared on the account. "Fine work," Prowl said before leaving the cafe with the same unhurried, hunting stride. What a weird guy. 

The staff appeared again, slinking like before, as if the tank might be hiding under one of the charming little two-person tables by the decorative butane firepit. "Merciful slag," Jumpstart said, eyes wide as he glanced over Prowl's order. "He's going to kill himself with this stuff." 

"Everything still okay?" the boss asked, wringing his hands worriedly. 

"Yeah, still no problems. Except for maybe insurance if he keels over dead on the premises from drinking his order while he's still in here." 

"Oh, let's hope nothing happens to him here." The boss was clearly not in the mood for jokes and seemed genuinely terrified at the idea. 

"Um, probably it'll be fine. He seems like the kind of guy who knows what he's getting into." 

* * *

The tank said he was "Hot Rod" next time, which was a real hoot. At least his hellish order included room for calcium this time, though he added barely a trickle at the condiment bar. Ontarget caught sight of the swizzle stick before Hot Rod tossed it. It was literally melted in half. 

* * *

"Ratchet" was the next one. It sounded like the kind of name a medic would have, which was ironic because there was actually even more raw caff in the drink this time, such that Ontarget was wondering whether his joke about the officer keeling over might be a real risk. He'd never heard of anyone committing suicide by caff. He supposed that there was always a first time. 

* * *

Before Ultra-Magnus-Prowl-Hot-Rod-Ratchet came in the next day, Ontarget caught sight of him talking to an absolutely huge metal recycler across the broadway - a very distinctive person with a big X-shaped visor. Ontarget touched the side of his very ordinary visor and sighed with a little jealousy. He'd never he able to afford something that swank on his wage. The two were talking very animatedly and the recycler was smiling broadly. Before they parted, the tank leaned in and hugged the side of his companion. Hugging him from the front would probably be inadvisable, given the giant hole full of razors. When the officer finally came in, he had a little bounce in his stalk. 

"Good afternoon, sir. You should have brought your partner in for a drink too." "Partner" modified to mean "romantic partner." 

The tank's secondary guns twitched upward in what seemed to be shock. "Ah, he is definitely not my partner." 

"No? You looked so sweet together." 

Ratchet almost seemed embarrassed. "He is a valued member of my team. Some affection is acceptable, I believe." 

"Aw. Your team's lucky to have such a good officer, sir." They really were. Ontarget had certainly never known of any other officer who would dispense hugs for good performance. 

Something in the tank seemed to droop slightly, alongside his back-mounted guns. "I hope so. I strive every day to be worthy of my position." 

"Is that why you drink so much caff?" 

A guarded response. "Among other things." His order this time was yet another study in personal torture. Part of the procedure involved Ontarget handling a red-hot crucible with lab tongs and dropping a shield over his eyes so he could heat up a wad of ore with a welding torch. This guy really knew what was on the secret menu. 

Once the chemical processes in the drink had settled enough that the barista could handle the cup with his bare hands, he carried it down to the pickup counter and said, "I'm glad I asked about your teammate. Now I can tell people if they ever ask if you're available." He winked half of his visor. 

"If I'm—?" Omega Supreme said, approaching a stutter. He visibly gathered himself back up and prowled out of the cafe without another word. 

* * *

"Sunstreaker" was a very pretty name, and it made all kinds of lovely spreading lines and spirals on the side of the cup when Ontarget wrote it. He told Sunstreaker so, and the tank just stared at him and slowly shook his head. Well, let him say what his real name was if he didn't want baristas taking him at his word. Maybe one of these would be the real one someday. 

"How's work been going, sir?" 

A flash of sharp silver inside the mouth-slit of the mask. A savage grin. "Very well. I think that we may soon find what we are looking for." 

"Oh, sounds great." Sunstreaker gave him another doubtful head-tilt. All hail Megatron, but he was actually really endearing, for a very scary tank with what seemed to be two fusion cannons. Anybody who toted around that kind of firepower was at least a little bit hot just for that, even if some might call it overcompensation. Ontarget was beginning to suspect that it was an advertisement. The tank didn't seem like the poser type. 

"And you. How are you doing?" Sunstreaker asked after a moment, as if he'd had to remind himself of what pleasantries were. 

"Can't complain, sir. Work is work, but I'm glad to be doing it." 

"Good mech. You serve the Cause well." 

"I'm happy that you think so," Ontarget said with a cheery smile as he delivered the latest concoction to the pickup counter with lab tongs wrapped around the cup jacket. He thought that he saw Sunstreaker's lips spreading into another, less ferocious smile under the mask. 

Before he could leave the cafe, Sunstreaker suddenly froze, staring at the window painting. "What is _that_ ," he snarled. 

"What, sir?" Ontarget rushed out from behind the counter. He followed the tank up to the window and then followed the pointing claw to a portion of the CAFF FOR THE CAUSE paint. Somebody had scratched a cartoony little valve into it, big jolly petals splayed out and the little scribbled hint of a plug way far back in the big dark hole. Typical soldier graffiti. "Aw, heck." 

"Did you see who was sitting here?" Sunstreaker demanded with strange intensity, pointing at the two-person table right next to the window. 

"No, I—" 

"Does this place have the appropriate number of cameras required by regulation?" 

"Of course, sir, I just don't know how to get—" 

"I will handle that. For now...this cannot be tolerated." He glared at the fat little valve-scrawl as if it was the worst stain on the face of the galaxy. "You must have additional paint in the back, I hope." 

"I'll check, sir." Turned out that they did and the boss, who always listened closely whenever this customer was in the cafe, immediately shoved it into his hands as soon as he came back to the storage area. When he went back out front, Sunstreaker had put his doom-laden cup down on the windowsill and was shifting all the tables down to leave a bunch of space in front of the window. He sent Ontarget back for paint stripper, insisting that simply painting over it would not fully remove the damage - a sensible objection. Luckily, they had some of that too. Sunstreaker watched him, arms crossed and caff congealing into a toxic lump, as Ontarget completely removed that one letter and carefully painted it back on. Thankfully, whatever the other customer had used to scratch out the valve graffiti hadn't scored the glass underneath. 

When he was done, Sunstreaker nodded in satisfaction. "Do not keep a table up against this window in the future," he said warningly. "This painting is a declaration for the Cause, and as such, it must be kept devotedly and respectfully. Ensure that your superior recognizes this." 

"Yes, sir, absolutely." 

The tank vanished after spending another few seconds outside the cafe, carefully examining the painting from the other side and apparently finding it acceptable. 

The boss looked like he was actually going grey around the edges from the terror of the tank's displeasure. "All hail Megatron, but I can't believe that we all survived that. Good work, mech." He slapped Ontarget on the shoulder a little unsteadily, like his gyros were still recalibrating from some almighty shock. 

"Sure, no trouble. He's really into the Cause; no wonder he got upset. You should talk to him, boss. You might have something in common." 

The boss stared at him like Ontarget was recommending hurling him into a live smelter. Horrified, and a little bit hurt inside. 

"You sure you don't mind waiting on him?" Jumpstart asked, rubbing the backs of his own arms as he warily watched the crowd outside the window. 

"No way. He's really sharp and noble and kind of hot." They all stared. He was getting rather used to being stared at, nowadays. "You don't think so? All those nice angles?" 

"Let's just... Let's never think of that," the boss suggested, trying to herd them to their places with trembling hands. The first customers were slowly creeping up near the door, necks craned to be sure that Sunstreaker wasn't lurking somewhere in the back of the cafe. 

* * *

"So what kinds of hobbies do you have?" he asked Fortress Maximus the next time he came in for his daily dose of shortened lifespan. 

"Hobbies?" The tank seemed unfamiliar with the word. 

"Everybody has something that they do to relax, even just a little bit." 

Fortress Maximus pondered that for a moment. Ontarget heard him over the sound of the blowtorch when he finally said, "I enjoy reading poetry, in addition to continually reviewing our lord's speeches and writing." 

"You're so devoted," Ontarget praised after lifting the welding mask. "I hope Lord Megatron's noticed how good you are." 

"I...hope so as well." A slight wistfulness came over the tank and his handsome secondary guns drooped a little. 

"What's your favorite poem?" 

That brought Fortress Maximus out of his funk, at least. "Ah...I love too many to have one favorite. But recently I find myself favoring 'Arise, My Shattered Country.' Such a stirring rhythm, based on the call-and-response style of old mining chants, and such a perfect climax! Nothing is sweeter than the nectar which drips from our lord's stylus - nectar which is the blood of his enemies." 

Ontarget was totally into this guy talking about sweet climaxes, but wow, he was poetic himself too. His good qualities just kept piling up. Ontarget figured that it was okay if he was getting a little too keen on this officer, since they weren't remotely in the same chain of command. He was pretty sure that Fortress Maximus had nothing to do with the Morale Division of Logistics. "Well, this has to sit for another three minutes or else it'll melt your glass straw. Could you tell it to me?" 

He'd never seen the officer so delighted. He was downright beautiful as he stirringly recited the verses while Ontarget watched. 

* * *

"I hope you will not misinterpret this gift," Blaster began a little hesitantly as Ontarget put the frosty trente cup down on the pickup counter. The tank reached into his subspace and pulled out a datapad sized for Ontarget's frame class. He switched it on and laid it down on the counter. Based on the button configuration, Ontarget guessed that it was placed so that the text was right side up for him. And dammit...it was full of letters. He tried not to let his nerves show as his eyes skipped randomly across the screen. "But I have taken the liberty of downloading my complete collection of Lord Megatron's poetry for you. I hope that you will take the time to read it." A friendly statement, but with a threatening sort of undertone that Ontarget was getting used to. Every damn thing this mech did was menacing. Maybe he worked in Interrogations or something. "Perhaps we might discuss some of it later on, if you find pieces that especially intrigue you. Many people are familiar with Lord Megatron's essays and speeches, and many commentaries on those works exist, but only a few have bothered to truly appreciate his magnificent written art." The idea of having someone to talk poetry with seemed fascinating to Blaster. Ontarget suspected that he was maybe pretty lonely, for some reason. 

Ontarget hoped that he wouldn't get killed if he disappointed the officer. He'd actually come to care about the weird, arguably self-destructive tank and worried more about hurting his feelings than about being reduced to a smear by his wrath, really. 

"Sure. Thanks for doing that for me. That was really sweet of you." He picked up the pad, hoping that he really was holding it the right way up, and snugged it to his chest with both arms. Blaster's guns wiggled and he smiled behind his mask. 

* * *

The tank stalked in in an even more intense and menacing way than usual, his masked face scanning openly side to side, clearly marking the soldiers who were hoping to make for the exit. Many of them huddled down in their seats instead, too scared to run. There was a ferocious, leashed agitation to him as he distractedly gave Ontarget his order. It was the most shockingly outrageous recipe that he'd ever heard, worse even than anything else that the officer had ordered before. Ontarget scrawled it down the side of a cup obediently, but felt compelled to say, “Look, um…seriously, people's systems were never designed to handle this—" 

The tank slammed a hand down on the counter and metal squealed as his claws dug long trenches into it. "Did I _ask_ for your input on my habits? Have I given you the impression that I value your opinion? How _dare_ you presume to question me!" Ontarget felt like his spark was slowing, its spin somehow reversing, the corona pressing in— He staggered back against the rear counter, hands clasped over his chest. There was a horrified gasp from the back room and the last of the patrons scrambled for freedom. "You are here to do your work as commanded. Do not overstep yourself, with me least of all. Do you understand me?" The sensation released him enough that he was capable of nodding frantically. "Then obey as it is proper for you to obey." The tank turned and went down to the pickup counter, where he stood facing the main entrance as if scrutinizing everyone passing by outside. 

Ontarget had dropped the cup, and it took him a moment to steady himself enough that he could take down another without pulling the whole stack over. He could literally feel his spark expanding back to its normal size. The drink took several minutes to make just due to the hazardous nature of the materials and industrial processes involved, but he finally finished it and carried it over, steadying it with both still-shaking hands. It was inside four nested cups and had a patchwork of five cup jackets over the outside, but he still wasn't sure that it was actually safe to handle. The tank turned and regarded him silently, and he kept his eyes fixed on the counter. "I gave you extra mercury syrup," he said softly. "It seemed like it might be an extra mercury syrup kind of day." 

There was a beat, and then the tank leaned back and released a burst of truly genuine laughter. He'd made controlled little rumbles of amusement before, but this was full-throated hilarity, uncontrived and uncharacteristic, pouring out as if carrying all of his tension away. He was breathless when it finally faded. Then he leaned over the counter and gently pressed a claw against the store account bracelet that every employee wore. The tip that uploaded was more than three times the cost of the drink itself. Then he settled his hand over Ontarget's and remained there for a few moments, shoulders low as if weighed down. 

"Thank you," he finally said, smiling behind his mask. "Yes, you're right. It _is_ an extra mercury syrup kind of day." His smile faded. "I sincerely apologize for that. It was uncontrolled of me, and you didn't deserve it. The work...sometimes it is difficult, though never impossible and never unwanted. We bend beneath it, sometimes, but we will never break." He lifted the cup, which was a calculated risk, but he should have at least another ten minutes before it ate through all of that extra padding. "I _do_ value you. You have helped me during my time here, and I am truly grateful." It turned out that the front plate of the mask could unlatch somehow. The tank lifted it up over his eyes and was able to fit the heavily-reinforced lid of the drink underneath it, taking a long, long chug of the horror that was within. Ontarget caught sight of his uncovered mouth for a moment as he licked corrosion from his lips and lowered the mask. "Thank you," he said again, and left. 

* * *

"Did you hear?" Crest asked as the staff huddled together behind the counter the next morning. "There was an execution on the lower levels last night." 

The others nodded but it was the first Ontarget had heard of it. "On the lower levels? Why there?" Usually executions were very public affairs and happened on the internal parade grounds or places like that. The others gave him silent looks that were difficult to parse - some worry, some pity, some other things as well. He wasn't sure what to think. 

Before he could formulate a response, the tank stalked in, much earlier than usual. There was no one in line at the moment, but the patrons began to shift, getting ready to escape. " _No one will move_ ," the officer commanded, and something in his tone nailed every foot to the floor. "I am here for one thing only. My work is done, as you no doubt have heard. Unless anyone else would like to arouse my suspicions?" Everyone remained frozen in their seats and the staff stayed at the counter as the tank approached. "Ontarget," he said, and Ontarget jumped a little, surprised that the officer even knew his name. "Come with me." 

"Um..." He looked at his boss, who was looking at the customer and didn't even notice. "I shouldn't leave my post before—" 

"That was an order, not a request. Unless you would like to countermand me?" he asked the boss smoothly. The other mech shook his head frantically. "Then follow. _Now._ " He turned to go. Ontarget hastily took off his green apron and put it on the counter before obeying. 

The tank was as menacing as he was yesterday, an actively threatening force of nature with lethality in every movement. He walked with long strides down the center of the entertainment district, the crowd parting frantically in front of him, and Ontarget struggled to keep up with his comparatively shorter legs. The tank looked over his shoulder at him once, the glance promising ten hells' worth of pain if he failed to comply, and the motorcycle kept up an awkward trot for the sake of staying just behind him. 

After yesterday, he'd thought that he no longer had anything to fear, but he was feeling more terrified than ever before. Where were they going? What was this strange person going to do to him once they got there? 

It turned out that they were going to one of the little corner cafes in the district, one that Ontarget suspected that his captor had chosen at random. The mech at the front huddled down behind the racks of menus and meekly said, "Please sit wherever you like, sir." The tank took a table in one of the far corners, where he sat against the wall. Ontarget watched as the tank put a strange little device on the tabletop and activated it, captivated by the blinking green light as if it held some kind of answers for him. 

"This is an audio deadening field, designed by Soundwave himself. Nothing on either side of the war can penetrate it. Now...you will tell me who your masters are." 

Ontarget looked up helplessly. "My masters?" 

"Who pulls your strings, Agent? Special Operations? Intelligence? Perhaps even Mechanism Resources? I know your game. You have played it well, but now it is over, and I expect you to tell me everything if you hope to leave this room alive." 

The two-wheeler slowly shook his head. "Please, I don't understand. I'm just a barista—" 

One of the tank's hands curled into a fist and anger tightened his voice. "You think that you can string me along forever? Yes, I admit, you had me for a while. You are quite the convincing actor. It was wise of your masters not to attempt some kind of mundane seduction as a test for me. You thought to snare me through my loneliness? Through an offer of _friendship?_ Very insightful. You may give them my regards if you survive this." 

Ontarget could only keep shaking his head confusedly. 

"Who do you think I am, Agent?" the tank hissed, leaning across the table. "Do you think my access to intelligence is _limited?_ Do you think that I am incapable of hunting you and your handlers down, when I have never failed before? Tell me what weakness you think you see in me." 

"I don't know who you are," Ontarget begged. "You never told me your real name." 

"You know my _name_ , Agent," the officer said, the weight on the word indicating that it was more than just a name. "Even Autobots know my name. Tell me who I am." 

"Please, I don't know! I swear, I don't know!" 

"...Very well. I will give you the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps they truly did fit you with an artificial personality, though I think you are a little too studied to be innocent. I am Tarn of the Decepticon Justice Division." 

Ontarget flinched back so hard that he jostled his chair across the floor. "You're— _Tarn_ of the— Oh glory, oh Megatron, I'm so— I didn't even—" 

"Why, how convenient that your memory has returned," Tarn purred. "Perhaps you remember your mission now as well." 

"But I don't have a mission! I just make caff, that's all I do—" 

"Do you think I am burdened by _mercy_ , Agent?" the commander said softly, making a ghost of that collapse whisper through Ontarget's spark again. Oh, Megatron, hadn't he heard something about the DJD, something about literally talking people to death— "Do you think I'm going to let you live because you claim this impossible ignorance? Give me a believable story. Tell me how you can possibly not know who I am." 

Ontarget clenched his hands at his sides, digging his fingers into the edge of the seat, and wrung the answer out of himself. " _I can't read!_ " 

There was a long silence. "...What." 

The two-wheeler stared down into his lap, crushed under humiliation. "I can't read. My brain module was defective when I onlined, but not enough to recycle me. I can write, but I can't read, not even my own handwriting. I'm just an MTO; I didn't rate workaround software or brain surgery. They said I was fine to fight, but I can't read my HUD, I can't read orders, and nobody would read anything to me. They thought I was just being stupid. But I tried. I just followed everybody else when they seemed to know what we were supposed to be doing." 

There was an awkward silence in which the torturer's fist uncurled on the tabletop and Ontarget angrily rubbed the tears out of the corners of his visor, mortally ashamed. "I didn't check your medical records," Tarn admitted. "I only read your service records, back to when you were onlined. Repeated instances of failure to follow orders, and finally a reassignment to Morale when you were deemed unfit for battle." 

"I didn't want to fail, sir!" Ontarget cried, lifting his sparking visor up to meet Tarn's masked gaze. "I want to fight! I wish I could go back to the front, but the same thing would just happen again. At least at the Starbot's...I can't mess up anything important. Nobody will die because of me." _Unless they kill themselves with chemical poisoning_ , the unbidden thought came. 

Tarn looked thoughtfully at the table. "Information about the DJD's activities is typically circulated through local written news outlets. The rank and file are expected to watch the recordings of our work, but the archive tags are given in print." 

"I know. I've heard. And I'm sorry. Nobody would help me. ...I couldn't read the poetry you gave me either, sir. I wanted to." 

"That's... That's fine. So you say that you had no idea who I was all this time?" 

"No, sir. You were interesting. You sometimes seemed kind of nice. I was just really, really worried about your health the whole time." 

Tarn sat back in his chair. "Possibly you're the only one who ever has," he said, a little melancholy. He met Ontarget's eyes, thoughts clearly ticking over in his mind. "You say that brain surgery could repair the glitch?" 

"That's what they said, sir. It's a hardware problem." 

Tarn pushed back his seat and got up. "Then we will have it repaired. And I will believe what you've said until I have more evidence otherwise. Come with me." 

Ontarget followed him, and the tank started to navigate through the alleyways behind various building modules. "Sir? The medical sector is the other way." 

Tarn unsubspaced a little vial of fuel that glowed even more brightly pink than normal. "We will be going back to our base on Messatine. I happen to have access to an immensely skilled surgeon who would have a better chance of understanding and repairing your particular problem." 

"Oh. Thank you." 

"Of course." Tarn kept up his steady walk while unlatching his mask and lifting it just long enough to swallow down the shot. "Do you know what that was?" he asked after a moment. 

"Not regular fuel, sir?" 

"Indeed. It was innermost energon. We had an opportunity to harvest some very recently." 

_An execution on the lower levels—_ Ontarget was simultaneously horrified and fascinated. 

"You seem curious about it." 

"It's hard not to be, sir. I hadn't thought people actually drank it." 

Suddenly, Tarn caught him up under the arms and pressed him against a nearby wall. lifted up so they could face each other. He freed a hand to lift his mask again and tilted his head to the side so Ontarget's jaw could fit inside the gap, and then he— Then he _licked_ underneath the barista's chin, right near the edge of his faceplace. "Give me this," he said, his rich voice husky and intimate. 

Panting, Ontarget spiraled open the port under his chin and extended his refueling proboscis to its full length. Tarn purred and caught it in his mouth, tongue wrapping around it, sucking on it with obvious pleasure. And the smaller mech sucked on him too, drinking up the fluid that still lingered in his mouth, laced with the innermost energon. It was rich and heady in a way that engex was not, a beautiful and complex flavor that he suddenly wanted to taste straight, as if that tiny dose had hooked him. And oh, all that soft, wet attention being given to the sensitive tube sent heat pounding into every inch of his body, every sensory circuit overwhelmed by unexpected pleasure. He resisted for only a moment and then his modesty panels snapped back before he could stop them. He gasped and pulled reflexively away, triggering them to close before anything worse happened. Embarrassment filled him where lust had before. 

Tarn only chuckled smoothly - the sound returning some of the hunger to Ontarget's frame - and lifted a hand to lower his mask again. "Did you like it?" he asked with false innocence as he carefully lowered the barista to the ground. 

"Yes," Ontarget couldn't help but admit, wobbling on his feet a little while Tarn steadied him with a hand on his shoulder. 

"I'm very pleased to hear it." He sounded like he might be grinning. "Perhaps I can find more for you on my ship." He ran his hand down the motorcycle's arm and lightly touched his wrist. 

Ontarget answered the request by wrapping his fingers around Tarn's firmly. "I would love that," he said. And, hand in hand. the two of them continued down toward the docks.

**Author's Note:**

> = Tarn's number one filthy, slutty kink is being respected and cared for as if he were a person and not just his job.
> 
> = Tarn’s wiggling guns are dedicated to Enfilade, who wrote at least one fic in which Tarn did an adorable tread wiggle and about fucking killed me. 
> 
> = I imagine that innermost energon has an effect that’s something like an all-natural energy drink packed with vitamins and minerals. (It’s good – and good for you!) Back in the Truly Old Days, I think that people donated some of their innermost energon to people who were very unwell so that the person could actually drink it and get a health boost. Over time, I guess it just became kind of creepy to do that and now…I guess it’s unclear what they do with all of it after the person gets better.


End file.
